Good Night, Detectives
by Crisis Project
Summary: The Batman and co. are on Genesis's tail - the source of the sudden onslaught of Rogues in Gotham City. And all from an accidental tip-off from 'Brooksy', an Arkham Orderly. Cornered, she's hauled along with them, sure she'd go Batshit Crazy! BatOC


**Good Night, Detectives**

By **Crisis Projects**

**Note:** Okay, this is proooobably the last revision… I swears!

**Warning:** Swearing, vulgarity will be kept on the DL, mature themes, etc. Rated T.

**Disclaimer: **The Batman cartoon and its characters do not belong to me. This story line does, and so do the original characters within it. Some characters may share the same names as other characters in other Batman cartoons, but that's because I'm trying to keep it within the same batty universe.

* * *

**Taking Root**

"Watch, rewind, repeat," muttered Lieutenant Ellen Yin. She shivered and pushed some of the long, stray hairs out of her face which had escaped her bedraggled ponytail as she stepped out of her patrol car.

"Don't ya worry Lieutenant," Cash Tenkinson reassured her after he rolled down his window, the red and blue lights reflecting off his customary, ever-present shades. "We'll always cash in with these nuts. Though the electric chair seems real good to Cash right now."

Yin frowned. "That's not the code we work by Tenkinson. Besides, capital punishment hasn't been passed into the law."

"Yeah, yeah, y'don't have to tell _me_. Freakin' wish it would every time though. And – _ow_! Raindrop in my eye!"

"…Tenkinson, what's the point to wearing those shades at night if they don't even protect you from the rain?"

"Well, y'see Yin, it works for the _image_, gotta strike _fear_ into the bad guys. Be all _intimidatin_'-"

Commissioner Gordon stamped his feet and thrust his hands deeper into his trench coat pockets, ignoring the small talk of his officers as he watched. Despite the sleet and stormy night, the tense relief was palpable from the force as a tight band of men marched from the squabble of police cars, through the rain and shadows into the golden bastion of floodlights at the entrance to a hulking fortress caught between older and more modern times.

A shrieking cackle chopped through the night, and the central figure twisted in the huddle's sinewy embrace as they hustled towards the safety of the doors.

"Don't you worry, Batsy and _Batbits_," Joker crooned in his deep baritone, the yellow light reflecting off his wide, scarlet irises, his roving jaundiced pupils dilated to stare at the impenetrable gloom. "I'll be out in _no time_, then we can pick up from before we were so _rudely_-" his glare swept over the uniforms of Gotham's finest, "-_interrupted_."

The door shut with a resonating clang, cutting off another bout of high-pitched laughter and plunging the wary crowd back into darkness.

"Right," muttered Gordon, sparks from his sputtering lighter throwing his water-flecked glasses and graying auburn hair and mustache into split-second reliefs. Times and parting remarks like these intensified the seed of nicotine cravings usually kept dormant, and he struggled to shelter the little flame from the high winds enough to light the last of his 'last cigarettes'.

"I'm gonna have a word with Arkham, see if we can't motivate them to speed up reconstruction around here," he said to Yin. "The rest of you, back on patrol. See if you can pick up Bane's trail, though I won't count myself half so lucky," he muttered the last bit to himself, nodding to the side.

A looming shadow nodded in reply, and detached itself from the gloom to peer up at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. With its many floors and stone towers fused into all four corners, Arkham Aslyum was shut down for the night, with a few lit windows dotting the expanse of its grey skin. The rest of the barred windows were black, a multitude of gaping rectangle maws hungrily leering at the world outside. Complete with turrets, rusty shingled roofs, climbing vines, and cement bridges as the only means of crossing the moat, electric barbed fences and manned sentry stations, the asylum was a curious blend of historic and futuristic fortresses.

Despite that, and even with its advanced security systems on the outside and inside, _they kept. Getting. Out_.

"I _hope_ we get lucky," moaned a shorter figure beside him, massaging a slender hip, "I don't think I can stand any more karate-wielding bananas tonight. Neither can Dad – thought he swore never to smoke again."

"Dude, if we're lucky, we won't see the Joker for another few _weeks_," grumbled an even smaller figure, "which _really_ isn't saying much."

"I hope Dad can get the nuthouse staff to at least rebuild Level E," said Bat Girl, swiping a look over her shoulder at the retreating cop cars, their red tail lights careening over the slick bridges and back into the glittering city. "These escapes are getting ridiculously predictable. Ten bucks that it'll be the Riddler out next."

Robin flashed a weary smile, cocking his head to the side, "oh yeah? My money's on Penguin. He's as smart as a sack of birdseed, but he's got those creepy Kabuki twins."

"Deal. I feel kinda bad, taking money from a kid so easily like this. Riddler's got brains _and_ henchmen."

"Yeah, _weak_ henchmen. One slap-down and they _stay_ down."

"Brawn doesn't go far without –"

"Nice to see that you two are so enthusiastic about a reunion," Batman growled sarcastically, his voice slightly rough and distorted. Raindrops slid down his cowl, collecting to stream down the tip of his sculpted jaw.

"Well, it's not surprising," Bat Girl defended, shifting her weight away from the hip she was still rubbing, "after the second invasion of the Joining, Arkham's been pulverized. Doesn't seem as though they get enough funding to rebuild at a faster pace either."

"And their security systems still _suck_," added Robin emphatically, swiping his dripping hair out of his masked eyes. "Level E especially."

Batman lowered his gaze to the shimmering flagstones underneath his boots, his lips tightening imperceptibly into a grim line. According to the latest office politics inside the madhouse, the underground Level E had just been upgraded to an even higher level of security, and now required a wholly separate, specialized staff. The new Level E orderly supervisor, it would seem, was sadly lacking.

If this Terry Brooks couldn't keep them in, then he would.

All of them.

_Permanently_.

* * *

"We need a _safe_ and _secure_ way to get them out," I insisted, "and drugs and rope aren't doing the trick!"

"And where the hell do you think we have that kind of money for your electro-whatever system, eh, Brooks?" Skinner smirked back, the fluorescent lights of the conference room reflecting off his receding hairline and carefully manicured chinstrap and goatee. "We still have to rebuild the east and south wings and parts of the fence and one of the sentry towers, and we barely have enough funds for those alone."

"The last time we did things _your_ way, Skinner, we lost the Joker, Bane, and the Ventriloquist. The time before _that_ we lost Penguin," I recounted, still struggling to control my tone as I had been throughout this entire meeting.

"_Lost_? Don't you mean _let go_?"

Skinner's voice slithered through the stale air in the conference room to practically poke the vein pulsing in my forehead. I snapped up my gaze and glared, meeting his flinty blue eyes, the animosity sparking between us.

"That's quite enough," cut in the slight man with fluffy, graying hair sitting to my left, at the head of the mahogany conference table. His grey suit was bland, but the cut hinted subtly at designer roots. "Mr. Skinner, are you surmising that I would appoint a Rogue sympathizer to be their overseer?" His voice was quiet and cultured, his eyes alert behind thick horn-rimmed glasses.

"Of course not, sir," Skinner simpered, his eyes flashing to me derisively as he smirked widely in what I thought was an attempt at a genuine smile. He shrugged his broad shoulders, and spread his large hands wide, palms up, in an appeasing gesture, "I was just pointing out that I've never had problems with my inmates."

I bit my tongue as I caught the head honcho's horn-rimmed glance.

"Enough. I propose a compromise – Mr. Skinner, hearing that you are confident in your leading of your charges during red alert procedures, you will continue using your previous method. However, since the exits from Level E are the east and south wings which are under construction, there are more chances for escape for our more… _infamous_ inmates here at Arkham," he mused quietly, sweeping his intelligent gaze around the roomful of orderlies. "At present we are underfunded, Miss Brooks. You may feel free to use more sedatives and spare equipment during red alerts and fire drills until we can examine this topic again at a future date, once we are rebuilt and refortified. Please continue to exercise you and your staff's considerable skills until then."

Soft rustling and hard clops announced the start of everyone's departure. I took my time, throttling down the anger as I ruefully slipped the blueprints of the Electromagnetic Security System Lining 3V back into the folder. It really _was_ a pretty penny. Slap on the Wayne Tech company label, and the price of any product seemed to triple. Even limiting it to Level E and its exits pushed the number well outside the budget the government had numbered for the institution. Just getting out of recession didn't help either. The two reasons combined meant a no-go for pay raises as well this year.

"Nice try," sneered Eddie Skinner as he jostled by me even though there was plenty of space around my chair. "But don't expect the rest of us to share your… _sympathies_. Those nuts deserve to be tied up at any chance."

"Out of my face, _ED_," we both knew I was referring to the shorthand for erectile dysfunction, and not a cute nickname, "or you might find yourself on the other side of the cell doors." It was pretty much an empty threat, seeing as he topped me by more than a foot and 150 pounds. But a few more prods and I might just get crazy enough to try.

Skinner's face contorted at the nickname, his hulking shoulders lurching up as he prepared to-

"Miss Brooks? May I have a word?"

Skinner broke the staring contest (which I was glad for, his eyes were getting a little buggy), and left. I turned to face Tobias Arkham, and reading his expression, my stomach started to sink.

"I'll get right to it. We have not yet found a replacement for your position as Level E orderly supervisor, and still require your leadership. Are you certain that you would not like to sign on as the permanent supervisor?"

I grimaced inwardly. I should've expected this. At the same time the mantra I'd had tripping through my head for the past two years rose to match my heart rate: _blend-in blend-in, blend-in blend-in, blend-in blend-in_…

"I'm sorry sir, I think I'll stay as a temporary fill-in for now…" I answered meekly through clenched teeth. "Don't think I'm all that cut out for this kind of lifestyle."

Arkham nodded, his eyes fanning out with wrinkles kindly. "Well, this is more of a request anyway. We don't exactly have a lot of resumes being mailed in, or respective candidates knocking on our doors. Just hang in there, Miss Brooks, and we'll find someone."

* * *

I've been hanging in there for exactly two years too long. I'd wanted to blend in two years ago, which had prompted me to take this job – and I _was_ blending in, in every sense of the word. Becoming a shadow, and blending in with the backdrop of crazies – so much so that lately I'd been looking around my feet for my marbles, before they went skittering off into a belfry.

Crazy, insane, nut jobs, freak shows, loose screws, whackos, daffy, off their rockers, self-proclaimed geniuses, B-A-N-A-N-A-S – if you wanted to find Jesus, you're more likely to find one here than in the nearest Catholic church. Hell, there were more than a few that Arkham Asylum could spare. You could even keep the change.

But the madness didn't just include the inmates. Aside from your usual elderly unraveling at the ends, you could find the occasional accountant who'd just had a meltdown in his little square cubicle, shrinks who needed shrinks, junkies who'd finally gone off the deep end, and numerous maniacally depressed citizens in the maniac city of Gotham.

The highlight of Arkham Asylum was, of course, that it was the only nutty institution in the city with a certified wing dedicated to some of the unique highlights of Gotham – underground floors dedicated solely to retain super villains.

…Well, at the time it had seemed like a good idea to blend in here. Who'd look for me amongst the shadiest and gaudiest of us all?

* * *

The underground cement halls of Level E were dark and illuminated with red lights, lending the dank cement walls a sinister feel. The chill penetrated much more effectively down here than aboveground, and I huddled a little deeper into my uniform overcoat and tugged my insulated gloves a little higher. A little furry felon scurried by into a hole in the wall, its squeaks mingling with the mutters echoing around the floor.

Welcome to **Level E** – the first underground floor of the most dangerous bananas in the fruit cake of Arkham Asylum.

Sinister chuckles and animosity roiled around the square-shaped compound, becoming a palpable menace which prowled behind your every step down here. It had taken two solid months to force myself to stop looking over my shoulder after each step – though the hairs all over my body still stood on end every time I left the safety of the blue-lit elevator.

With an internal sigh, I picked up a clipboard and pen from the bin tacked to the wall by the elevator door, and began my rounds.

Reinforced steel doors bolted with thick iron screws were spaced evenly down on the stone walls of the floor - every floor. The first door was stamped with "**E0001**" in large, bold black letters across the top of the door. The card holder beside it at eye level read "Edward Nygma."

I peered into the slot-shaped window and checked off the box by his name as I spotted his wiry silhouette on the tiny cot pushed up against the farthest padded wall. The floor space between it and the door was taken up with sheets of finished crossword puzzles, and lines drawn in the dust in complex patterns I had no hope of ever figuring out.

A riddle popped into my head, one the Riddler himself had told me.

_What question can you never answer 'yes' to?_

_Are you asleep?_

Smiling, I checked off the box beside Edward's name and proceeded down the hall. At this hour, most of the inmates were asleep – sleeping at night was still upheld as a norm here.

The brown rat which had scurried by earlier skittered past my feet and came to a stop by **E0002**, glancing back at me furtively as it raised itself up to inspect a steaming bowl set by the door. I frowned at the picture – both the rat and the bowl of pasta weren't supposed to be there – as the steel door whipped open and ricocheted off the wall with a _CLANG!_

"_Only puddin' can do that_! Next time ya try, ya li'l geek, _I'll break your bones_!"

An orderly skidded out of the room as the rat squeaked and ran away as I tossed the clipboard and raised my fists. He snapped the steel door closed, and the resonating _clang_ mingled with the dying echoes of Harlene Quinzel's shrieks.

All this was punctured with a high-pitched maniacal laughter filtered up through the cement floor, the octave taking a sharp nose dive into deep, hoarse chuckles a few doors over.

_Crap. I hope that doesn't mean what I_ think _it means_… I thought as I straightened and picked up my clipboard again, trying to pick up my cool with it.

"You do realize that she's in a straight jacket," I pointed out. "You don't have to run all the time, for giving her her food."

With sharp wheezes and deep gasps for breaths, Stan White looked up at me with an empty tray dangling from one hand. "Hey – Brooks," he greeted, sweat drops glistening in the red light, his voice an octave higher than normal.

"Hi Stan. By the way," I said, checking off the box next to Harlene's name, "where were you during the meeting? Could've used your help in there."

"Uh, session with Dr. Crane," Stan mumbled, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "He's new, but he makes sense."

I frowned, "next time you have to see your shrink during a meeting, let me know."

Stan stiffened and drew himself up. "Dude, I'm _not crazy_. I just saw the Batman that _one time_ and everyone gets on my case," he growled. The red light glinted off his blue irises, and a tiny part of me had to admit that he looked more than a little deranged right then.

"Right. Hey, what's the pasta for?" I asked, deliberately changing the subject. Munching sounds were starting to come from Harly Quinn's cell. For a Barbie clone, she sure didn't have Barbie's meal manners.

"It's Tuesday," he muttered, as if by way of explanation.

Which just sailed over my head. "…So?"

"It's mac'n'cheese day," he muttered, lowering his chin even further towards his chest, his ears going red. "This is Joker's lunch."

"What? Joker's back?" I asked, automatically taking the bowl from his offering hands.

That certainly explained Stan's behavior. I could only feel a twinge of pity. He was older than me by a few years – he was twenty-six, if I recalled correctly – and he really did not belong here. He did his job well, with minimum fuss, but he had the worst of luck. On his first day employed down here in Level E, he'd been attacked by the Joker and petrified by Joker gas just as the Clown Prince of Crime was debuting. After he'd been cured and returned, his eyes had taken on a red hue for a while – a side effect of Joker gas - until it had steadily faded back to its original blue, though leaving him with claurophobia and a healthy fear of Joker.

He was the type of 'dude' who should've graduated from college and become a shoe repairman or something, while he surfed on the side and gotten himself a cute girlfriend and a normal life, maybe two or three brats decorating his family portrait. I'd pinned him with three more years before he completely spiraled down the drain.

"Yeah." Stan was starting to retreat down the opposite side of the hallway. "I'll be in the monitoring center if you need me."

"Sure," I answered, looking down at the steaming bowl, my stomach knotting itself as I anticipated the visit with the resident comedian failure.

A shriek of laughter pounded through the air from behind my back and I spasmed into the air and whirled around. Chuckles crawled out of the barred window of **E0006 **like black furry caterpillars and disappeared into the shadows where the lights couldn't reach.

I jostled around the clipboard, bowl, and pen in my hands and checked off **E0003** to **E0005**, each step bringing me closer to Joker's cell as my stomach lurched in rebellion against the smell of the pasta. Dread and anticipation had already taken up residence in my belly and there really wasn't any room for even the thought of food.

An involuntary shudder crawled up my skin as I forced my feet to move. I checked off **E0005**, neared **E0006** and peered into the dark.

"**BOO**!"

For the second time in a minute, I spasmed into the air and strangled a yelp as the ghoulish face of the Clown Prince of Crime lurched up against the bars out of nowhere. While he cackled himself silly, I collected my breath and faced him with a sardonic twist in the lips.

"Nice one," I commented dryly.

Joker winked a black-rimmed red eye, "never gets old Brooksy."

"Welcome back, Joker," I said, checking off his name on my list. "You checked in again pretty soon."

"My other half just _loves_ to take care of me," he replied, his grin hiking up his razorblade cheekbones and displaying his yellowed crooked teeth and blue tongue – results of a chemical bath, or so he'd said.

Joker was just as much of an enigma as the Riddler – whenever he was returned to Arkham, he acted as though he didn't mind that he'd been returned to the nut house. On the contrary, he just wallowed in memories of his latest encounter with his favourite vigilante. The only time I'd ever seen his tears were when I'd glimpsed them after an experiment he'd conducted with Hugo Strange (now locked up on a floor aboveground), which had resulted in Ellen Yin's rescue from Gotham Symphony Hall.

Rolling my eyes, I fished into my bag and held up a red pill. "Think you're gonna need this from your latest beating from your 'other half'. Maybe it's about time you two broke up."

He giggled and opened his jaw obediently. I took aim and tossed the pill in.

His face suddenly disappeared as he doubled over and great hacking coughs vibrated through the door.

Subconsciously I almost reached for my set of keys – he was in a straitjacket, so he'd be restrained at least – until I remembered that I wasn't dealing with a normal maniac. Waiting for all of half a minute while he wheezed and hacked, I finally drawled, "you can cut the act, Joker."

His white face appeared again with another smile, his coughing fit vanished completely. "Pain meds went down the wrong pipe."

"Uh-huh. Consider that payment for the last bet."

Joker pulled a comical expression of deep thought. "I won the last bet? You mean the one placed on me, or the one before that?"

"Before that. You bet Penguin would be checked in again in a month and a half," I murmured, double checking in a little notebook I'd drawn from the inside of my coat.

"Knew bird-brain wouldn't stay out long," Joker winked. "So these are my Sweepstake winnings?"

"A Tylenol isn't exactly Sweepstake material," I returned with a quirked brow. "But the bets were low at any rate."

"And how about the bets _this_ time, Brooksy? I'd like to know how everyone thought the Clown Prince of Crime would do this time around."

"Well, you _did _return in three weeks since your last escape –"

Joker glared.

"-but most of us bet higher than three months," I finished, forcing myself to keep the pace of my words steady. Showing fear to people like the Joker was like showing fear to animals – they could scent it, and know they could corner you. Something Stan had failed to learn.

"But _someone_ had to have won," he pointed out, his voice rumbling like gravel.

"Uh," I coughed delicately into a fist, "that was me."

His eyes narrowed to red slit, his yellow eyes boring into mine. "And what was your time limit?"

I forced myself to grin and shrug a shoulder nonchalantly, "less than a month."

He kept up his pose, his face thrown in shadows, looming down at me from behind the barred window and I could only effusively thank the five-inch thick steel door for standing between us. Despite having talked with him countless times since my assignment to Level E, I was still edgy whenever I was around him. Thankfully I'd learned how to deal with intimidating people early on, and I'd employed such tactics so as to get on his good side a little. Of course, that was no guarantee – the Joker was much too unpredictable a force of nature to be pigeon holed into a set behaviour pattern.

Suddenly his red lips cracked into a grin. "A pipsqueak like _you_ predict _me_? Now _there's_ brains over brawn for you!"

I quietly let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding as he laughed. Honestly, I hadn't expected to win the pool – I'd purposely bet on a low time frame so that I might lose. Winning too often resulted in sore losers – and in Arkham, _sore losers_ meant _psychotic killers._

"Wait just one moment Brooksy," he piped as he disappeared into the depths of his padded cell. I took a step forward and peered in, spotting the straitjacketed madman walking towards a wall when he suddenly looked over his shoulder and _tsk_ed.

"I'm not going to be decent right now, Brooksy. Be a _dear_ and give me a little privacy. I give my indecent moments to _Batsy-Watsy_ alone."

Frowning, I did as asked. Stepping away while Joker hummed a merry tune, I walked over and checked in on **E0007**'s Ethan Bennett, who was sound asleep.

"Oh Brooksy!"

"Yeah?" I found him waiting by the door, his white skin pressed up against the bars and his long nose poking out towards me like a hooked, accusatory finger.

"Just wait there one second and take what I give you."

"Wait, what?"

He disappeared into the shadows once again. Give me something? _With what hands? He's in a straitjacket!_

Suddenly a white foot with long toes and cracked blue toenails appeared at the bars, holding a card deck packet between the biggest toe and the next.

"Monkey feet. Forgot you had those," I said as I took the car packet in hand.

"Well? Gonna open it?" Joker asked as his face took the place of his foot at the window again.

"What's it for?"

I opened the paper packet and looked inside – red and purple playing cards with his Joker face emblem printed on the glossy backs. Judging from how they sliced against my thickly gloved fingers, they were the razor sharp kind he used as weapons.

"There's a few cards missing," I noted.

"I never play with a full deck, Brooksy. That's the last few wins I owe you," the clown answered. "Consider my debts paid off."

"And where'd they come from?" I asked, biting down on guessing where he could've hid them in inappropriate places on his person.

He winked again, "ask me no secrets, and I'll tell you no lies."

I mustered The Look at him.

"Okay, so I've got a talented, silver-blue tongue which just doesn't stop shakin'."

"Isn't this a bit much for the last three bets I won?"

"It's also a congratulations present to the Level E Orderly Supervisor, _sir_. I'd salute you right now, but I'm a little... _tied up_ at the moment."

Ignoring his bad pun, I slipped the cards into my bag. "Is the word out already?"

"Is anything _really_ a secret around here when half of us talk to our imaginary friends all the time?" Joker snorted, flapping a chalky foot by his pointy chin somehow. "A few of them knocked on my door and left me the news."

"Right." I didn't question him further – the Arkham grapevine sometimes surpassed any high school cafeteria where you couldn't so much as breathe without hearing about someone's sex life. I was glad _those_ days were behind me.

"But is that really a _good _idea – being assigned to _us_? What if you're driven _crazy_ by the _crazies_?" Joker cackled.

"Well I _do_ have coverage for shrinks since I work here," I said wryly.

"Then maybe you can join our _group therapy_ sessions! It'll be a _hoot_!"

"Maybe after Stan joins you first," I commented as I spotted Stan beckoning to me from behind a pillar. He hadn't approached the door of **E0006** within ten feet for a while now if he could help it. "Maybe you should let up on him."

"And miss out on those _classic_ expressions?" the clown's voice soared from high to low in a heartbeat, "_not a chance_."

Stan was getting frantic with the hand signals.

"Gotta go," I muttered, "good night, Joker."

"Twisted dreams, Brooksy."

* * *

A clip clop of Orderly feet echoed faintly down the southern corridor of the first floor of Level E. The Orderly had only walked the halls of the Asylum a handful of times before – the red light glared off of his goggles, black forked mustache, and cast a long shadow behind his looming, muscular form. His bold, square chin turned as he stared at the two Orderlies conversing at the north-western corner, before he retreated back into the stairwell.


End file.
